


I'm From Nowhere

by LucBev



Category: Bleach
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucBev/pseuds/LucBev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ikkaku, once weak and foolish, is saved by a stranger. One that cleared the clouds above him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm From Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> i've been wanting to write a short first-time-meeting fic about these two for a while.

There was a time when he was not so strong. A time when he lost often, and was too afraid to beg for his death at the hands of the victor. But still he fought, as if it was the only thing he could do.

He was good for little else. There weren't many ways to get by here, and he was unfit for most of them. Unskilled as an artisan, not pretty or slight enough to sell himself. Like he would ever do that. All he could do was kill.

He started off with weaker foes, smaller men in groups who had nothing to live for. Like him. He won often, but sometimes he barely made it through with his life. He was covered in healing wounds at all times. Truly, he would have no chance of making money any other way.

He plundered the pockets and purses of his fallen foes, saving what he could and using the rest to buy food. He was always so _hungry_. He felt like a freak, a hungry soul, so rare and strange. He wasn't supposed to feel that way, and yet each night he struggled to fall asleep because of the growling in his stomach.

Often he went without food, not wanting to be distracted by that desire. He had to concentrate, he told himself. He had to keep fighting, because it made him feel alive.

And so he marched menacingly from town to town in his ragged clothes, carrying a sword in his hand, ready to do battle at any time. Some people cowered. Others laughed. He growled them away, held his blade to their throats until they submitted. He couldn't understand why the women in those towns would scream and run from him. He had no intention of fighting a woman. Perhaps they had heard some false rumors about him.

It disgusted him. He had no interest in that sort of conquest.

 

Nighttime was when it was the hardest. He had poor vision, blurry from his hunger, so he walked along the alleys jumping at the sounds. He felt so weak, like a frightened child. He was younger then, but not so young he should be afraid.

One night he was starving, more so than he'd ever been. He could hear his body aching for food, and was certain it was loud enough to echo through the streets. He was cold. It was a cloudy night with no stars.

He gripped the hilt of his shoddy sword in his large fingers, preparing for the terror of the night as he heard the streets go silent. The lights in the sheds and stone buildings were put out by hands or by the strong winds.

Sometimes the night would speak. Low words, ones he could not understand. It was the howling of the wind and the chatter of the street gangs. He wasn't afraid of them. They were afraid of him, he was certain.

“Ain't got the moon to bounce off your head tonight, big fella,” he heard someone say. He drew his sword, always eager for a challenge that would leave him covered in blood.

“Who's there?” he asked, his voice quaking just a little.

“You don't remember me?” the stranger asked, stepping out of the shadows carrying a large club. He was followed by two other men. “You killed a dear friend of mine, baldy.”

“You'll have to be more specific,” he challenged, grinning though he felt afraid. There were three of them, which normally would have been no problem. But they were big and it was so dark and he was so hungry. He placed another hand on the hilt of his sword.

They made the first strike without even telling him who it was he had slain. There were so many of them, too many, and he could hardly remember their faces. He remembered their wounds, he remembered the spoils he earned from their deaths. He remembered no faces or names.

He blocked them well at first, though he knew he had made an error allowing himself to be on the defensive to soon into the fight. He had to use everything, every appendage and every ounce of his strength, lashing out at the three of them on all sides.

He got knocked down because of his weak footing, his shaking legs crying out for nourishment and rest. On his knees he still held his sword to them, trying to keep the fight going, though he felt his blood all over.

“Say goodbye, freak,” the leader said, before hitting him hard on the head with his club. He drifted in and out of consciousness then, felt himself getting dragged along the uneven ground, knew that he was leaving a trail of deep red. He felt cold. Hungrier than before. His every limb ached and his head was ringing.

This was his last fight. He tried to go willingly.

 

He opened his eyes, blurry still in the middle of the night. The clouds had faded and the moon showed him the trail of dried blood he had left on the ground. Pathetic, he told himself.

“Hold still,” he was told by some low, gentle voice. He felt slender hands on his body, on his wounds.

“H-” he tried to speak, though his throat was dry and hoarse.

“Don't try to speak.”

He obliged, let those thin fingers work over his chest. He was being adorned with some sort of paste.

“Who-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mm.”

They were silent for a little while, and he felt his body begin to dry. The blood had ceased to flow from his cuts and stabs.

“You really got yourself messed up,” that gentle voice said, and he felt one hand resting on his cheek, his aching jaw.

He finally opened his eyes all the way. He was propped up against a building, naked and cold.

“I'm-” he stammered, trying to cover himself though his body was too weak. He was swiftly covered in some white fabric.

“I was getting to that,” his healer told him, patting his shoulders. He tried to study the face. Fair and even, eyes so dark but bright somehow in the moonlight, like he had cleared the very clouds. “I couldn't have you getting blood all over my clothes.”

The man before him was wearing only loose pants, tied at the waist in a shoddy bow. But still, somehow, it looked intentional. Like he had meant to show off his slim waist and sloping shoulders.

“What did you put on me?”

“It doesn't have a name,” the stranger said, holding up the small jar. “But it stops the bleeding.”

“Th-thank you...”

“Yumichika.”

“Heh?”

“That's my name, if you care to know.”

“Yumi...”

“Close enough.”

Yumichika sighed and fell against the side of the building beside him, reaching into his pockets for a small satchel.

“Eat,” he commanded, offering up some nuts and dried berries.

“Ikkaku,” he groaned, having not heard his own name in some time.

“That's a good name,” Yumichika mused, before beginning to chew on his food, “if a little harsh-sounding.”

“How did you know I was hungry?” Ikkaku asked.

“I could sense it, of course. Could you not tell that there was someone nearby with the same powers as you?”

“Powers...”

“I have to eat too, Ikkaku.”

“Oh,” he said, enjoying the taste in his mouth, the feeling of someone beside him who he had no intention of fighting. He wondered if this Yumichika could even fight, with his slight figure and his gentle voice. He pulled the fabric closer around him. It was tight and short on him, the white tunic, and it became obvious that it was meant for a much smaller man. But it smelled sweet and was oddly warm, so he tied it around his waist with care. “Thank you.”

“Mm, you said that already.”

Ikkaku smiled weakly, looking at the food in the palm of his hand. It tasted so good, so rare, like a delicacy though he knew it was stale and common.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, turning his pounding head to look up Yumichika's face. So undamaged and pale, his dark hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. How could something like that survive in a place like this?

“I'm from nowhere,” he said, shrugging, turning to look at Ikkaku, who swiftly turned his head forward, accosted by those soft features. “Like you.”

“Everyone's from somewhere,” Ikkaku mused, though he himself could not remember if he came from any place.

“Hm,” Yumichika said, gulping down the last of his food. “Then we're both from right here.”

“What?”

“We're starting over. We're from here, if anyone asks.”

“We?”

“Don't tell me you want to travel alone again. After this?” he asked, indicating the many wounds.

“No, it's not that,” Ikkaku stammered, weakly standing up with Yumichika's help. “It's just...why would you want to travel with me?”

Yumichika's face softened, even more, and he touched Ikkaku's face again with his gentle hand.

“No one can survive here alone.”

“I can't promise I'll be able to protect you,” Ikkaku admitted.

“Clearly,” Yumichika snorted, using his other hand to graze the cuts on Ikkaku's neck. “But I can protect myself just fine.” He shook his hips a little, drawing attention to the sword tied to his waist.

“Okay,” Ikkaku said, moving his hands to hold Yumichika's thin wrists. “We're from here.”

They stayed there until the sun came up, asking none of the usual questions, for they knew there would be no answers. Do you have any family? What was your childhood like? If they remembered, they certainly did not want to.

Instead they talked about their hunger, how they could sense things happening very far away. How they had dreamed of a better life. Like a premonition.

“We'll both get stronger, Ikkaku,” Yumichika assured him in the morning as they stretched and prepared to move on. “Then we can leave this place, some day.”

Ikkaku smiled, wanting desperately to ask if they would be certain to leave together, to go on together, to both be from some new place.

 

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title is also that of a neko case song. listen to it, listen to all of her songs.


End file.
